Cycle
by psquare
Summary: AU tag to 7.17. Full spoilery summary inside.


**_A/N_: **Reaction-fic! _7.17_ reaction fic no less! Thought I'd jump on the bandwagon. :)

**Summary: **Dean and Castiel do their best to try and keep Sam alive while they desperately search for ways to cure him. Nothing's ever simple, but this isn't the first time they've battled against great odds.

**Warnings: **SPOILERS for 7.17: _The Born Again Identity_, aaaaangst, some swearing, ambiguous ending, present-tense, metaphor-abuse. Also, a fair bit of self-indulgence. Also also? A lot more Dean-Cas interaction than I'd planned for. Enjoyed writing it, though.

I'm not 100% happy with this, but I had to get it down so that I'd finally stop thinking of the episode. :p Also, this story at least partially owes its existence to **kettle_o_fish**, so y'all know who to blame. :)

_**Cycle**_

"I can't fix this," Castiel says.

Castiel smells. His trenchcoat is stiff with dried lake water and blood and black goo, and everybody on the floor is wrinkling their noses at them. Dean can barely stand being next to him, and _he's_ the one who ferreted that goddamn thing, transferring it from musty trunk to musty trunk. He made sure Sam never found out that he was still keeping it—they've come a long way, but Dean will avoid chick-flick moments when he can—but he's pretty sure that Sam knew, anyway. Stupid emo geek giant.

"I can't fix this," Castiel repeats, and Dean just stops himself from snapping _then just shut up_, because what's the point? The point of everything, every token of forgiveness he extended toward Castiel, every moment of his goddamn _life_, is lying there, too senseless and weak to even roll his eyes at them and tell Castiel to _remove that stinking thing already, I think I'm going to gag_, and Dean hasn't ever felt this lost before.

(_except he has, hasn't he? he has, he has, he has, and he just wants it to be over please_)

"I'm sorry, Dean."

Castiel hasn't stopped apologising, not since Dean found him with his hand on Sam's forehead, head bent and spine curved under the weight of immense (_familiar_) guilt. _I can't, I can't_, he'd said, but Dean had been too busy drinking his brother in, at the purpling bruises around his eyes, the pale skin, the bloody nails, muscles still twitching erratically. Then he'd looked at Castiel, listened to his apologies and his self-loathing, and it had been like Ilchester all over again, except Sam had broken the world then, and Castiel had only broken Sam.

(_but Sam is Dean's world_)

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "Fine," he says. "You're sorry, I get it. But I need your help right now, not apologies."

Castiel blinks at him. "Anything," he says.

Dean waves a hand toward his brother. "Zap us out of here," he says. "It's not like the shrinks can help him; he shouldn't have even been here this long."

Castiel nods. "Understood."

Sam turns bloodshot eyes toward them as they approach, but there's no recognition in those eyes—only exhaustion so deep it hurts to just look at him. Castiel places one hand on Dean's forehead, and Sam's eyes widen as he reaches out to Sam with the other. "No," Sam says. "I don't want—_no_," in a voice so broken that Dean wants to kill something, _anything_, but all he does instead is listen to Castiel's endless _I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry_, until the world lurches from under his feet.

* * *

><p>They hole up in the closest thing they've got to home these days—Rufus's cabin. Dean could use Bobby's formidable library and his long list of contacts if he's going to find another way to help Sam. Castiel stays with them out of a twisted sense of responsibility, and now that the urgency of getting Castiel to cure Sam is gone, things are... different between them. Dean doesn't understand it and isn't sure if he wants to, but he has to admit that he needs Castiel. If nothing else, Castiel can at least keep Sam's heart ticking over, and prevent long-lasting physical damage. It gives Dean time to find an alternative.<p>

He doesn't entertain the idea that, perhaps, there is no alternative. He and Sam have lived through so many deaths and resurrections; spent eternities in the afterlife. Sometimes he thinks their bodies are more like disparate parts sown together with angelic thread rather than flesh and blood and sinew. They are a walking, talking proof that there is _nothing_ in the universe that can destroy you so thoroughly that there isn't something, _somewhere_, that can pull you back together again.

All you need to do is find it.

When Dean isn't hitting the books, or at the laptop, or working his way through Bobby's contacts, he sits with Sam. He's tried to make Sam as comfortable as possible—he's cleaned out the room, bought a decent mattress and fresh bedding, and he makes sure that Sam eats regularly, even if there are days when he's so weak that Dean has to feed him like he's all of three years old again. He talks to Sam about every goddamn thing he can think about—from how much he misses the Impala to a detailed account of every prank he's ever played on the kid—hoping that, somehow, he can drown out Lucifer's voice.

Sam, for his part, just lies there in some kind of stupor, occasionally groaning or flinching. Dean does things for him that would've mortified both of them in different circumstances—helps Sam to the bathroom, helps him clean up, dress, eat, _live_, but all Dean can feel now is a choking sadness and a tenderness he didn't know he possessed, while Sam... well. Who the hell knows what he's feeling?

(_i'm sure you could guess, alastair would say. maybe he can._)

Castiel helps out as much as he can—spends long hours standing over Sam's bed, staring, like he's made out of stone. He takes care of Sam when Dean can't, when Dean's busy or asleep or so drunk that he's passed out on the dusty living room floor. He keeps Sam's body from deteriorating—heals the lung infection that Sam gets two weeks in, cures his failing kidneys, restores Sam's hair as it falls out in chunks, keeps his muscles from atrophying and his heart pumping.

He can barely keep up with Sam's failing body, however, and even after the healing, Sam continues to run a fever; continues to gasp for breath.

Sam continues to die, and Dean's starting to realise that maybe he doesn't have as much time as he thought.

Sometimes Castiel disappears for hours together—Dean has no idea where he goes, and he doesn't really care unless he's trying to find answers. Every time he comes back, his clothes are torn and bloody. Dean asked him about it once, and only once; all Castiel had in reply was, "There are several forms of atonement, Dean."

Atonement, sure. He isn't touching _that_ with a ten-foot pole. He's seen it with Sam, seen him make his life an apology, and where did it take him? A goddamn hole in the ground and two centuries of torture. The last thing he wants is to see Castiel do the same, but he can't bring himself to argue with the angel. He doesn't have the energy for anger when he's this desperate, he just doesn't.

One day he comes back from a food run to find Castiel sitting with his hand on Sam's forehead. Sam's expression is so peaceful that Dean's heart lurches painfully in his chest. He's barely opened his mouth to say something (_sammy please not yet oh god sammy no no NO—_) when Castiel says, "Do not worry. Sam's still alive."

It's said with a terrible sort of sadness, but it still makes Dean go weak-kneed with relief. "Oh g—that's okay. That's, that's good. I just—I thought—god."

"I have been trying to communicate with him," Castiel says serenely. "In his mind," he clarifies. "I did achieve a minor degree of success."

"What—Did he say anything?"

Castiel turns those sad eyes on him. "He wasn't very coherent. He only asks that he die."

(_i'm too tired dean_)

Dean lurches out of the room, locks himself in the bathroom, and cries for the first time since the ordeal began.

* * *

><p>Dean's phone rings.<p>

He lifts his head from where he's been contemplating a glass of whiskey, grabs it, and peers at the screen. It's an unknown number. Frowning, Dean flips the phone open. "Yeah?"

"Is that—is this Dean Winchester?" It's a woman's voice, small and scared and strangely familiar.

"Yeah," he says.

"Oh—_thank god_," she says before he can continue. "You wouldn't—happen to know where my husband is, would you? I mean, he left with you all those days ago, and now he isn't even answering his phone, and I've been going _crazy_—"

"Wait a second." _Shit_. Dean really doesn't feel up to dealing with this right now. "This is, uh, Daphne?"

"_Yes_," she says, and she actually sounds exasperated. "It took me a lot of trouble to get your number—the people I've had to talk to! Do you know where Emmanuel is?"

Dean rubs a hand over his face. "Look, I'm sorry, but—"

"Don't you tell me he's dead, _don't you dare_—"

"I'm not. I'm not!" Dean drains the rest of the whiskey in the glass in one gulp. Figures he can use the help. "I, uh." He sighs. "I don't know where he is, I'm sorry."

There's silence on the other end, long enough for Dean to wonder if she's hung up. Then: "When did he leave you? Did he cure your brother?"

Dean wants to shut the phone and _scream_, but answers instead, "No. No, he—couldn't cure Sam. He left after that. I haven't seen him since."

"Did he say where he was going, at least?"

"No, he didn't. I'm sorry, I really am, but I really can't help you."

"Oh." Her voice sounds even smaller now, and Dean wishes he can sympathise, he really does, but at some point, too much loss and whiskey (_and hell_) burnt that ability out of him. "It's just that—I'm so scared," she continues. "He's an amnesiac, and he might be wandering somewhere alone and lost and _hurt_, and—he's my god-given _responsibility_. How could I have just let him go with all those _monsters_ after him?"

She's sobbing now, and Dean's about two seconds from hanging up. "Listen, Daphne—"

"He only wants to help other people!" she cuts in. "He doesn't deserve this, he doesn't! He doesn't deserve being hunted down by, by _demons_, doesn't deserve to be studied in a lab like he's some kind of animal—"

Dean frowns. "Wait, what?"

"Some genetics company actually wants to _study_ him, can you believe it?" Her voice trembles. "Had one of them come over yesterday asking for Emmanuel; they wouldn't believe me when I told them those were _gifts_, not, not _mutations_—"

"Daphne. Daphne! Listen. What was the company's name?"

A few agonising seconds of silence, then, uncertainly: "Geothrive. I think."

_Oh, shit_. Dean jumps to his feet. "Right, uh. Okay. Thanks." He snaps the phone shut before she can say anything else.

In jumping from one obsession to the other, he'd completely forgotten about the Leviathan threat—and now they _know_ about Castiel. It isn't safe for them to be here anymore; isn't safe for them to be in any one place for so long, and isn't it about time somebody _somewhere_ cut them a break? Because Dean could friggin use it just about now.

"Is something wrong?" Castiel asks suddenly, and Dean jumps about two feet in the air. He's yet to get used to having Castiel pop up anywhere, anytime again.

"The Leviathans are onto us—onto _you_." Dean starts moving, pushing away empty bottles and gathering all the pages and pages of notes. "We can't afford to stay here anymore; we need to keep moving."

Castiel sighs. "Dean—"

"_What?_" Dean glares at the angel from behind a large pile of books. "Look, either you can be useful or you can leave me alone to actually do something here."

"Dean," Castiel says patiently, "Sam is in no condition to travel."

Dean feels his heart drop to his shoes. "I know," he says. "Which is why you're going to teleport him there."

"His health is too precarious to risk even that mode of travel, Dean. When I... teleport, the human body undergoes considerable trauma. A reasonably healthy individual can recover easily, but Sam... it's too dangerous, Dean."

Dean slams a book onto the table, raising a cloud of dust. "Then what do you want us to _do_, huh, Cas? I mean, you got us into this mess, you broke his wall. Got any solutions?"

"Say what you want, Dean, but for Sam's sake, I believe we should stay here."

Dean sputters a laugh. "For Sam's sake. For _Sam's sake_? Since when did you give a damn about Sam's sake, Cas? You had no problem using his friggin _sanity_ as _leverage_."

Castiel's eyes are blazing. "I am also the one who raised him from Hell, Dean. From the _Cage_."

"Oh, yeah. And you did such a great job of that, didn't you?" Dean kind of hates how bitter he sounds, but the dam's broken, and the words won't stop. "Stop trying to decide what's best for us, Cas. We're leaving."

"Is it because you're such an authority on what's best for Sam?" Castiel's voice is suddenly cold. "Is that why you condemned him to this horrible, slow death by forcing his mutilated soul back into him?"

Dean grits his teeth, and before he can think twice about it, raises his fist and punches Castiel across his jaw. Castiel's head barely moves, of course, and Dean cradles his aching hand, glaring mutinously at the angel.

Castiel's expression softens. "I'm sorry, Dean. If the Leviathans do arrive, I will face them down. They are my responsibility."

(_i let him out; i gotta put him back in_)

Dean deflates. "Self-sacrifice hasn't gotten anybody anywhere so far, Cas," he says, "so don't start it up again." He stares at the ceiling, praying for an answer. Not for the first time, he wishes he has Bobby to turn to. The ache of his loss hasn't been this acute since the day he and Sam burned his body. "Hey. You said—you said you talked to Sam, right? In his head?"

"Yes."

"You think you could arrange it so that I can talk to him, too?"

For the first time since regaining his memories, Castiel smiles. "Of course," he says.

* * *

><p>Castiel lays one hand on Sam's forehead. Dean closes his eyes as Castiel touches his head, and when he opens them again, Castiel's gone. There's only Sam, and he's staring blearily at Dean.<p>

—he is staring _at_ Dean.

"Sammy? Sammy, hey." He sits on the bed next to Sam, lays his hand over his brother's. "You okay?" He wants to smack himself upside the head the moment the words come out. What kind of dumbass question was _that_ supposed to be?

Sam blinks at him slowly, runs a dry tongue across his lips. "Dean?" he says, the word a whistle from his windpipe, and it's the best sound Dean's ever heard in his life.

"We're at Rufus's place," Dean says. "Not gonna lie, bro—you're in bad shape."

Sam's eyes skip to a point behind Dean's shoulder and then back to Dean. "I just want some rest," he whispers. "So tired."

Dean's eyes burn. "I know. God, Sammy, I know—I'm going to help you find that rest, you understand?"

"Tired," Sam repeats. "Please, Dean. Please—stop doing this."

Dean shakes his head. "You can't ask me to—just give up. Not _you_, of all people."

"There's nobody else I can ask," Sam says simply. "And there's nothing more I want. I need to _sleep_, Dean, do you understand?"

He understands all too well (_I'm tired, man_) and there is no way in _hell_ it's happening on his watch. He lurches forward, hugs Sam. He can feel his brother's rapid heartbeat through his T-shirt; the heat of the fever is rolling off him in waves and Dean swears he can start tracing Sam's ribs through his skin. But Sam still leans into Dean's embrace with the kind of trust that even two centuries of Hell and being on the brink of death can't take away, and Dean feels both elated and humbled.

"I'm going to save you," he says. "It doesn't matter if Dad, or you, or anybody else says it's impossible—I'm looking for a way, Sam, and I _will_ find it."

Sam only says, "Dean," but it's affirmation enough.

Dean finds himself being yanked back into reality—Sam's no longer in his arms, but Dean imagines he looks a lot better, or at least, less like he's ten seconds from being loaded into a coffin.

"Right," Dean says. "We need to get a move on."

"It may be too late to make a decision," Castiel says, and when Dean casts a puzzled glance at him, the angel points to the ceiling. "Look."

Dean looks, and _holy shit NO. This is too soon_. Black goo is oozing from the crevices where the walls meet the ceiling, and when he looks toward the entrance, more of the goo is beginning to creep from beneath the front door. Dean squares his jaw, grabs his machete. "There's Borax in the closet," he says. "It's the only thing we know that'll actually hurt these sons of bitches."

"Right." Castiel pauses, says uncertainly, "If this does not end well—"

"Shut up, Cas, I'm sick of hearing that speech." Dean grins. "We fight, then we grab Sam and you zap us away from these suckers as fast you can, yeah?"

Castiel nods. "We fight," he says.

The front door bursts open.

_**Finis**_


End file.
